


Mead and Sympathy

by mongoose_bite



Series: Dyce the Incredibly Easy Breton [12]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Sex, Frottage, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dyce and Brynjolf have a long overdue conversation about life, Mercer, and just why they haven’t fucked each other’s brains out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mead and Sympathy

Brynjolf bent over the ledger, his hands flat on the table as he stared at the inked numbers intently. He didn’t look up as Dyce strolled over, the Breton carrying a bottle of mead in each hand.

“Not now, lad. I’m busy.”

Dyce was silent for a few moments and he took a swig from one of the bottles.

“No you’re not,” he said. “Those numbers aren’t going to get any bigger just because you’re staring at them. Have a drink.” He placed the other bottle down on the ledger in front of Brynjolf’s face.

Brynjolf picked up the bottle, partly in case it spilled and made the ink run. “I’m not interested in becoming one of your conquests, lad.”

Dyce narrowed his eyes, distinctly unimpressed by that remark, but he guessed the Nord was just trying to get him to leave. Brynjolf wielded words like a blade sometimes. “That’s both cheap and beneath you, Bryn. You know it’s not like that.” He waited a few more moments. “We think you’re working too hard. Vex suggested I try and loosen you up.”

Brynjolf finally looked up at that remark, one eyebrow raised. Dyce merely shrugged and smirked. “That’s what she said.”

“Right,” Brynjolf said, straightening up from the ledger and taking a drink. “Where have you been anyway? Ever since the _key_ business you’ve made yourself scarce.” He flicked his gaze towards the shrine to Nocturnal. “She scare you off?”

“Yeah,” Dyce said quietly and without hesitation. “It’s been a bit of a crisis of faith, if I’m honest.”

Brynjolf looked around the Cistern, but early evening was the quiet time; everyone was out drinking or working. Nevertheless he kept his voice down, moving around the table to stand next to Dyce, who was leaning on it like it was a bar.

“Really, lad? And how did you resolve it?”

Dyce fished around down the high collar of his Nightingale Armour and pulled on a chain, revealing the Amulet of Dibella that hung around his neck. “As it turned out, another lady had a prior claim.”

“As easy as that, huh?”

“To be honest it wasn’t that easy. At all.” He smiled, “I had some help.”

“What you went and saw a priest?” Brynjolf snorted.

“Yes,” Dyce said, and gave him a broad smile. “I highly recommend it.”

“That’s the trouble, isn’t it?” Brynjolf didn’t return the smile. “I never considered myself religious.”

“That’s the beauty of it though,” Dyce said. “You can’t serve against your will. Even Mercer managed to get out of it.”

Brynjolf exhaled, “Mercer. If we’re going to talk about him, I need another drink.”

“I can understand that.” Dyce took his weight off the table and carried the empty bottles back to the Flagon. When he returned he had two in each hand, to save him another trip later. Brynjolf at least hadn’t gone back to his ledgering, instead leaning he was against the table his arms folded across his chest as he stared moodily at the statue of Nocturnal.

Dyce placed two of the bottles on the table and handed one to Brynjolf.

“What a mess,” the Nord muttered. “He really dropped us in it. You did a good thing by getting rid of him.”

Dyce wandered over to the edge of the water and shook his head, “It didn’t feel good. Don’t get me wrong, it had to be done, and if I’d hesitated he’d have gutted me. Again.”

“I’d have thought after all he did you’d have hated him,” Byrnjolf commented, watching the back of Dyce’s head.

“I’m not very good at hating people,” Dyce said, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. It faded. “That wasn’t it, though.” He looked back at the water. “I liked him. Divines help me, I _liked_ him.”

Brynjolf coughed around a mouthful of mead. “Don’t tell me you and he...”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t about that,” Dyce waved a hand dismissively. “Ah.” He shrugged. What had Erandur said? Be more honest. He turned and walked back to where Brynjolf was leaning against the table. “I didn’t know my parents. I don’t miss them or anything, but Mercer was the kind of bastard I imagine my father would have been.”

Brynjolf didn’t say anything, but he nodded to let Dyce know he was still listening. Dyce drank, marshalling his thoughts.

“I respected him. I looked up to him, that’s all. He was so skilled; I felt, I felt joy that there was someone who could do what he did. I didn’t know about the Skeleton Key, so he showed me what I thought was impossible was not. I wanted to learn from him, I wanted him to respect me as a thief. I trusted him - up to a point.”

“And you paid the price.”

Dyce shrugged, “Yeah. That’s what happens. It’s not gonna stop me. Every time Vex ties me up, hell, this conversation right here. It all comes back to trust. When you come down to it, Mercer was a good leader. Aside from-”

“Emptying out the vault.”

“Yeah, that. He kept everyone in line, got us a patron, he didn’t threaten us like a bandit chief. When I walked in here for the first time, this place felt like a home - not my home, not yet, but Mercer was part of that. A lying, cheating part, but we’re _thieves_ , Bryn, what can you expect?”

“This was not how I expected this conversation to go.”

Dyce laughed, “You and me both. I think Mercer was played. Oh, he did his share, I’m not excusing him, but still.”

“Played by who?”

Dyce nodded in the direction of Nocturnal’s statue. “Who do you think? He was a thief’s thief. Yeah, she punished him eventually; most of the time she punished the rest of us. On some level, I think she approved. That’s what Daedric Princes are like.”

Brynjolf huffed unhappily into his drink. “I’m not sure what I think about this whole business. I never figured myself a cultist. And the others don’t know what to think either. I’m not sure I like the way Karliah organised things without consulting the rest of us.” He stared moodily at the statue. “And it’s too late now.”

Dyce grinned, “It’s never too late. I think we need to stop taking things so seriously.” He put down his drink and pawed through the clutter on the table, until he found a stick of charcoal.

“Dyce,” Brynjolf said in a warning tone. “You sure you know what you’re doing, lad?”

“Aw, what she gonna do? I’m not her pet anymore.” He grinned and walked over to the statue. He looked around the room, and then lithely lept into the Daedra’s arms. He wrapped his legs around her waist to steady himself and then applied the charcoal liberally to her upper lip.

Brynjolf watched and tried not to laugh.

“Does she need any other improvements while I’m up here?” Dyce called.

“A beard?”

“Oh. Good call.” He added a goatee before hopping back down and returning the charcoal to where he found it.

“Karliah’s going to scrub that off as soon as she sees it,” Byrnjolf pointed out.

“Yeah, but as long as some of the others see it first, my work is done.”

They laughed and drank, and opened the second pair of bottles.

“What are we going to do about the guild, lad?”

Dyce groaned and sat on the floor, with his back to the wooden side of the desk. “I don’t know.”

Brynjolf sat down beside him, leather creaking as he crossed his legs. “The guild needs direction. We need a leader.”

“Those two are not necessarily the same thing. We need to decide what the guild is. Are we a cult or a criminal organisation? If we’re one, Karliah can be our high priestess, if we’re the other, why not just take orders from Maven?”

“Because we’re neither of those things - or not merely those things - and you know it. I don’t like this cult business; reminds me of the Brotherhood.”

“Why don’t you do it then?” Dyce asked. “You’ve got experience.”

Brynjolf leaned his head back against the side of the desk, “I’ve given it a lot of thought. All these ledgers and dealing with Maven- I recruit people, I keep people happy, but I can’t discipline them.”

“Well I can’t do it,” Dyce said. “I’d be even worse than you; half the guild’s seen me naked.” He smirked over the bottle, “And the other half want to.”

“I’m not arguing.” Pause. Dyce raised an eyebrow. “With you not being much of a leader. You lack the streak of meanness required.”

“Maybe, maybe the job can be shared,” Dyce suggested. “Someone can be the disciplinarian, someone can talk to Maven, and so forth.”

“You’re saying the outfit needs more than just brains. Yeah, it’s not a bad idea. The Guild needs a heart - there’s a spot for you.”

Dyce blinked at him in surprise, “Why, Brynjolf, that’s almost poetic.”

Brynjolf met his eyes briefly, “I wouldn’t read too much into it.”

Dyce shrugged, “We still need some brains, however.”

“Being serious,” Brynjolf said. “Do you think it would work? You, me, Vex and Devlin. What if we disagree? We need a tiebreaker. Karliah?”

“It seems like the obvious choice,” Dyce said. “A council. Why not? We’re just getting bigger. If we’re serious about a solid presence in every hold, relying on one person just seems like begging for trouble.”

“I’ll sound the others out,” Brynjolf said. “We don’t need to be hasty.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Rune and Sapphire, who arrived via the ladder. Sapphire nodded at them and walked out to the flagon while Rune went to empty his pockets into the guild tribute chest.

“Rune!” Dyce cried. “My most wonderful friend. Bring us more drinks, would you?” He waved an empty bottle and looked at the Imperial imploringly. Brynjolf merely watched.

“Fine fine,” Rune said good-naturedly. “I wouldn’t want you to overstrain yourself.”

As he left the room Brynjolf turned to Dyce. “He was half in love with you,” he said quietly.

Dyce smiled, a bit sadly. “I know. I think I overwhelmed him a bit, to be honest. I’m glad we could be friends.”

“You seem different,” Brynjolf observed. “If I’d said that three weeks ago you would have made a joke of it.”

Before Dyce could answer, Rune returned, with mead, bread and cheese on a tray.

“If you’re ever too old to steal, you’d make a fine barmaid,” Brynjolf said.

“Only my brothers in crime get service from me,” he said. He set the plate down and bid them good evening.

They ate in silence, devouring the plate of bread and cheese with the knowledge that neither of them would be bothered to go and get more once it was gone.

“So, what happened, Bryn?” Dyce asked eventually.

“When?’

“Somewhere between the Bee and Barb and your pants. I ain’t, you know, upset or anything, just curious. I know flirting when I see it - don’t tell me you were chatting me up just to get me in the Guild. That’s low, man.”

“No, lad, it wasn’t like that.” Brynjolf sighed. “I don’t see a polite way of saying this; you’re too easy.”

Dyce raised his eyebrows, “I didn’t figure you were the kind to care what I did on my nights off.”

“I’m not. I mean, for me it’s all about the chase. You just, well, I’ve never seen you turn anyone down, you get me?”

Dyce nodded and took a drink. “Huh, fair enough then. Mystery solved.”

Brynjolf looked at him for a few moments. “That’s all?”

“Yeah. There’s no such thing as a bad reason for turning someone down. What did you expect, that I’d throw myself on you and beg you to make a man of me?” He smirked.

“I could picture you doing that, actually.”

“Ah, but would you want to?”

“What? Picture it or make a man of you?”

Dyce just chuckled and wrapped his lips around the neck of the bottle, tipping it and his head back to get the last few drops. It didn’t sound like Brynjolf was entirely convinced by his own arguments, but Dyce was hardly going to chase him at this point.

Brynjolf was watching him and Dyce knew it.

“I’m glad we had this conversation,” Dyce said. “It’s been productive. Now try not to bury yourself in work again and blow everyone off the way you have been. We’ve missed you, Bryn - the place isn’t the same without you.”

“I’ve been here,” he said gruffly.

“You know what I mean,” Dyce said seriously. “We can sort it. Karliah, Nocturnal, everything. We’ll work it out.” He glanced around at the empty bottles and sighed, “We’ve made a mess. I’ll clean it up.” He got to his feet with little difficulty, and started collecting the empties and putting them on the table.

His hips were roughly level with Brynjolf’s line of sight, and the Nord just watched him as he piled everything onto the tray.

Brynjolf reached up to place his fingers on the outside of Dyce’s leather-clad thigh. And Dyce stepped away, just out of reach. He raised an eyebrow and looked down at Brynjolf, a smile playing about his lips, “Sorry, old friend, but you’ve just told me nothing gets you off like someone playing hard to get. So, if you want me, I guess that’s where I’ll be. You have a good evening.”

Brynjolf lowered his hand and uncrossed his legs, resting his arm on one knee, “Really? I think you’re underestimating me. I like a chase because I’m damn good at it, lad.”

“No, you just think you’re hot.” Brynjolf was putting himself on display and Dyce obligingly looked, his gaze sweeping the Nord’s long legs, and back up to the gap in his armour at his collarbone to where a few curls of red hair were visible above the black leather. “Admittedly, you are.”

“Oh, I think you’ve been sadly misinformed as to where my real talents lie.” Dyce couldn’t help himself glancing down briefly to Brynjolf’s crotch, and then back up again. The Nord was grinning. “Well, sadly it looks like you won’t find out.”

Dyce shrugged. “Sadly. I’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

“We both know you don’t want to.”

“Do we? You seem to have missed something, Byrn. So I’ll tell you.” Dyce stepped away from the table and put one foot on either side of Brynjolf’s knees. He bent at the waist until he was nose to nose with the Nord, his Nightingale armour creaking slightly as he did so. “You may like a chase better than a conquest, but me, sometimes I just want to tease.”

Brynjolf leaned forward an inch and Dyce straightened up, “Oh, so close, and yet so far.”

“What are you gonna do now, lad?” Brynjolf asked, folding his arms. “Strip?”

“What have you done to deserve that?” Dyce asked. “I don’t want to just make you hard, I want to make you _beg_.”

Brynjolf didn’t unfold his arms, he just shook his head. And then he hooked a leg around Dyce’s ankle and kicked the other one out from under him. Dyce yelped and his knees landed either side of Brynjolf’s hips, his hands on the Nord’s chest.

“Oh, very funny,” he said. “So what happened to your famous chase?”

Brynjolf unfolded his arms and reached up to tangle his fingers in Dyce’s ponytail. He tugged, not hard, and Dyce let himself be pulled closer. “You got caught, lad.” He gave him a surprisingly sweet smile, and then leaned up and kissed him. Dyce’s fingers curled on Brynjolf’s armour as he kissed him back. He tasted mead, the sweetness of which didn’t match the ferocity with which they butted noses and crushed their lips together.

It seemed everyone had been holding back for far too long.

Dyce settled down more comfortably in Brynjolf’s lap. Leather did not stretch, and Dyce knew well how painful it could be to have too much fun in leather pants. So he ground down on the bulge he could feel under his arse and Brynjolf grunted and wrapped his other arm around Dyce’s back.

When they broke apart they were panting, lips swollen and eyes dark. Brynjolf looked like he was going to say something but in the end he just sighed and scraped his teeth across his bottom lip.

Deft fingers made short work of buttons and buckles as Dyce pulled open Brynjolf’s jacket, and he sat back and gazed admiringly at the broad, hairy chest he found underneath. He pinched Brynjolf's right nipple, then slid his hand down his ribs and over his stomach, feeling the muscles underneath flex. With abs like that, the man had to be able to fuck for hours, he thought.

Brynjolf had had a go at the Nightingale armour, but it didn’t come off easily, all overlapping leather scales, and no obvious way of getting it off, so he attacked Dyce’s belt instead, and the leather ties below it.

“Gods, I thought you wanted to delay your gratification,” Dyce said, his hips rising as Brynjolf reached into his pants, and gave him a squeeze.

“And I thought you were a tease,” Brynjolf said hoarsely.

“I lied,” Dyce breathed against his mouth.

Brynjolf tilted his head back as Dyce rasped his tongue on his stubble, then bit down on the edge of his jaw. Lick, bite. Lick bite. By the time he’d reached Brynjolf's ear, the larger man had pulled Dyce’s cock free of his pants and was stroking him slowly, base to tip for each bite.

Dyce heard a door slam, somewhere behind him. He jerked his head back and met Brynjolf’s startled gaze for one brief moment. They didn’t speak, they didn’t even think; they acted. Dyce wrapped his arms around Brynjolf’s shoulders and ducked his head, and they rolled under the table.

They came to a halt, Dyce still straddling Brynjolf’s waist. They waited in the shadow under the desk, barely breathing.

Footsteps.

“See, I told you it was a ridiculous idea.” Niruin.

“It is not.” Thyrnn. “We just need a better way of predicting the weather. Or we move faster.”

“We could steal some horses.”

“How well can you shoot from horseback?”

As they were having this conversation they walked further into the Cistern. Dyce watched their feet as they paused by the cooking pot, and someone poked the fire, presumably to warm their hands. Please, he thought, don’t let them sit down and start cooking.

Dyce felt Brynjolf shift beneath him, and he looked down to see the Nord biting down hard on his lip, his hands easing slowly between them towards his belt. Dyce lifted himself up slightly to give him more room.

Niruin and Thrynn were still there, standing by the fire and discussing their plan. Dyce barely heard it. It was a stupid idea to even move; they were in the shadows but not entirely hidden, but he couldn’t stop himself, Brynjolf couldn’t stop himself. He held his breath as Brynjolf slowly and carefully eased his belt open, trying not to let the metal buckle clink. Equally slowly, he started working on the straining buttons below.

Dyce couldn't tear his eyes away, although he could hear the others walking around, and the scrape of someone moving a chair. They could have been unloading the entire contents of the Imperial treasury and he wouldn’t have cared. Because Brynjolf was easing his pants off.

Dyce held his breath as the Nord’s gorgeous uncut cock was finally freed from its leather bindings. Even in the shadow he could see the end glistening, and he could feel its warmth. Brynjolf gave it a slow, luxurious stroke, and Dyce watched a bead of moisture squeeze out the tip and drip onto Brynjolf’s stomach.

“Look at that!”

Dyce snapped his head up.

“Ha! Someone’s defaced Nocturnal.” The two thieves wandered away from the fire and around the edge of the room towards the statue. “Who do you think did it?”

“Brynjolf? He seemed kind of pissed about the whole thing. Or Vex, to show she’s still the girl in charge around here.”

“Dyce would too, although I haven’t seen him around lately.”

“Do you think we should clean it off?”

“Nah. Why should we? It’s not our problem. Besides, it’s kind of funny. Just don’t tell Karliah.”

Dyce silently released the breath he’d been holding when he realised they hadn’t been discovered. He looked down into Brynjolf’s half-closed eyes, and rocked his hips, feeling his cock press against his stomach. Brynjolf’s mouth opened and through what appeared to be a great effort of will, no sound came out.

Dyce forced himself to breathe quietly, as Brynjolf's hands crept around his hips, and cupped his arse. Brynjolf squeezed and pulled him close. Their cocks were pressed between them, and Dyce realised he didn’t want to stop moving, couldn’t stop. It was an agony of pleasure as they silently ground against each other, hardly daring to breath, or even move too much, lest they hit the underside of the table and cause something to make noise.

Dyce grabbed on to Brynjolf’s shoulders and gritted his teeth, willing Niruin and Thrynn to go away.

But the fact that the other thieves were there only made it more urgent, more impossible to stop, as Brynjolf shut his eyes and arched his hips up desperately. There was only the slightest sound of leather sliding against leather where their legs were pressed against each other.

Dyce couldn’t keep watching, he lowered his head to Brynjolf's chest, pressing his open mouth to the Nord’s skin, his eyes shut against any more stimulation.

It seemed to go on like this forever, Niruin and Thrynn wandering around talking and Dyce and Brynjolf trapped under the table, unable to tear themselves apart even if they’d had the space to.

“Well if we knew where the money was we could get it back, but those that knew are all dead.”

“Well, it’s not like things are going badly. No worse than before.”

Receding footsteps. The door to the Flagon closing.

“Ah!”

“Oh fuck.”

Dyce groaned. “Gods finally,” he practically sobbed.

“Ngh! I thought they would never leave.” Freed from their silence, they gasped and bucked against each other.

Dyce bit at Brynjolf’s chest. “You look so very delicious,” he said. “But I honestly don’t think I could take that much more waiting.” He squeezed Brynjolf’s hips between his legs. “I just want to come,” he confessed.

“Lad, you- yes.” Brynjolf raised his head, “How? Which way? I don’t, I really don’t care.” His hands hadn’t stopped kneading at Dyce’s arse.

Dyce smirked, “Since you like it so much, you can have it.”

Brynjolf jerked his hips up, “You just want this.”

“Maybe.”

“Top left hand drawer.”

“Seriously? You dirty bastard.” Dyce finally pulled himself away from Brynjolf and crawled out on his hands and knees from under the desk before kneeling and opening the required drawer and pawing through the bits of paper, quills, bottles of ink, old coins, bits of string-

Brynjolf loomed over him, and reached past his shoulders, and into the back corner of the drawer.

“Got it. Hold still.” With his free hand he tugged Dyce’s trousers and pants down around his knees. Dyce didn’t argue, he just spread his legs as far as he could with his armour still half on.

Brynjolf was sloppy and in a hurry and Dyce didn’t care because he was in a hurry too and probably wouldn’t have complained if he hadn’t bothered at all - at least, not until he felt just how big Brynjolf was.

Brynjolf wrapped an arm around Dyce’s chest and with his other hand guided his cock into the Breton. Dyce nearly came then and there, and if Brynjolf had touched his cock he would have. He hissed and gasped and steadied himself. Brynjolf didn’t sound much more collected, and he held himself still for a few moments, shuddering with the repressed desire to move.

“Ready now, lad?” Brynjolf rumbled in his ear.

“Please.”

Brynjolf slipped a hand around Dyce’s aching cock, and started to move. He managed to thrust into him once, twice and then he lost it and Dyce flung his head back and tried not to lose his teeth on the edge of the table as those muscles he’d admired earlier flexed as he was fucked just on the edge of painfully hard for breathless, desperate seconds and then Brynjolf and his gorgeous cock fucked him right over the edge and he came as he felt the Nord swell and thrust one last time and come inside him, a ‘yes, oh, right there, you wonderful bastard you gorgeous-” and then Brynjolf ground his teeth around Dyce’s earlobe and Dyce could only moan breathless agreement as he spent himself.

Dyce let go of the edge of the table and they toppled back onto the floor. For the first time Dyce realised how filthy it was. And how filthy they now were. Didn’t matter.

“We should get up before someone else comes in,” Dyce said.

“Yeah.”

They pulled themselves upright and Dyce also pulled his trousers up. They looked at each other, half appreciative and half amused at the state they were in.

“You know, we should do that again,” Dyce said. “Somewhere like the Jarl’s throne room.”

“Right under the throne,” Brynjolf added.

“While she’s sitting in it.”

They laughed and Brynjolf wrapped an arm around Dyce’s shoulders, “Come on, I owe you a drink.”


End file.
